There's an End to Every Era
by Going Gently
Summary: ...and a start to every revolution. After an accumulation of debt, disease and war, the United States of America falls. It's a slow and dirty descent into madness, but England sticks it out to the end. This is the story of the rebirth of a broken world. Us, Uk and Fr.


AN: First upload! This is a story I have been working on for the past few months. Expect more, but do not expect quick updates, amateur-author is plagued with school work. Regarding the story itself, please give it a read and look over. It does get better the farther you go, and hopefully more poetic. Angst is major here, please forgive me and my teenage, hormonal flailing. I appreciate and welcome reviews with constructive criticism! Notes on content will be at the end of the chapter, usually containing my backup for several ideas and rambles. Because I'm awesome.

Enjoy!

* * *

America was dying.

They all knew it. The nations carried on normally, assembling each month and debating on economics and eyeing political boundaries. And yet, behind it all, there was a silent acknowledgement that times were changing. America watched the charade carefully, his words few and indifferent. His increasing silence went unspoken among his peers while they continued living in a waning shadow. He went unseen as he ducked out of the conference to vomit in the men's restroom.

(England had followed him once, the first time, as all eyes had turned to him when his former charge disappeared. He was the one responsible for America. He should have seen it coming.)

* * *

After Germany breaks session at a 2023 London meeting, England goes to find America.

The American was lounging against wet cement stairs at the stained feet of a back door, his face turned to the sky. America's carefully folded glasses were drowning in a puddle by one of his drumming fingers.

For a moment, England just stares.

America had always been a weakness in his life, like an insecurity. There were moments when the two of them could see eye to eye, able to communicate through small gestures and looks. But, most of the time, they were on two ends of the spectrum, divided by dozens of opinions and their rapidly separating cultures. World War II had brought them together, but not even a century later America was slipping through his fingers.

(England thought about it, once. He saw the way America's life fell like sand through the hourglass, even as the nation scaled heaven's ladder as high as he could go. Maybe it wasn't America slipping through his fingers. Maybe it was America slipping through the short flare of his life. Maybe America was like Mongolia, maybe America wouldn't be killed by it, maybe he'd be left with some grains, because hadn't Great Britain been left with some?)

"Whaddya want, Iggy?"

England had jumped and then frowned. He felt his brows crease together but couldn't bring himself to care.

"I'm just checking on you. Everyone was wondering where you had run off to." Lies. They all knew where America had gone, why he had gone. Estonia carried on his climate presentation while they all pretended the empty seat near the head of the table had never been filled with anything other than dust.

"Hmm." America's long fingers rise from his side to massage his temples. He drops them with a pinched look. England walks down the steps, pausing at America's shoulder. The sky is grey and expressionless when he looks up.

"Can I ask you something?" America muttered; low enough that the other nation could barely hear him. Deep dread settled in the pit of his stomach and England grunts affirmative. "Have you ever thought about what happens to people like us?"

England bows his head and closes his eyes.

(Closes them because the look on America's face is so young in its tragedy and heartbreak it makes the dread pool and chill, coating his blood and heart with lead. He starts to sink. Of course he's thought about it; they all had. Whether it was in the trenches of the Great War or the darkest of winter nights as the plague ripped open their heart, everyone became a philosopher in the face of death. It was a dark place he didn't want America in.)

"The meeting is about to begin again. Let's go inside, America," he brushes off brusquely when he regains his voice. He turns away so he can't see the desperation on his friend's face.

* * *

The last time England sees America is on a rainy afternoon. If he had known the circumstances, if he had known their conversations had been among their last, he would have never left. But he never knew.

When the Brit leaves his plane he is driven to America's penthouse, whose building borders on Central Park. The city is wet and in the throes of New England's autumn that's not quite a winter. England tries to ignore the lack of life in America's largest city.

But he is not blind, and the boarded buildings and jaded faces are burned into his brain.

* * *

Central Park is expansive and alive against the yellow lights and black skyscrapers. England's pale fingers play with a cup of brandy America had poured, shaking the glittering glass so that the ice chimed. Half of the city is on a timed blackout, but the wealthier areas such as where he sits are conspicuously lit.

Across the white-board floor, America is flipping his damned hamburgers.

England made an offhand sort-of-joke about the merits of America's diet. His transatlantic counterpart had looked up from his grill, a hurt look on his thin face.

"I can't gain weight like this, anyways," he had mumbled in protest, wincing at the loose fit of his clothes. England had stammered an apology, taken aback by his mood. They sit in silence, broken only by their awkward tries at conversation.

"You know what's funny?" America asks eventually. Not surprisingly, he doesn't wait for the shorter man to answer, just keeps going on, eying his patties with a melancholic concentration. "They think that if they pump me with enough money, I'll be okay again. But nothing'll stick to me. It's like, 'Coach, it doesn't matter what I eat. I'm not the quarterback you need. Pull me out, because I'm done.'"

('They,' of course, being the idiots in his government, fumbling through their legislation and laws until their fingers were bloody. America had confided in him that there were no magic answers, no bills or cuts or breaks or recalling of the lawmen to make him alright. England could see it in his eyes; America was tired. Tired to his bones built on the dream of democracy his fathers had spurred. And even if England barely grasped the idea of America's frivolous football, he can grasp what deadened despair looks like in blue eyes. There was simply nothing to do.)

When America finishes his meal of four burgers, they sit and talk.

Talk about philosophy and books and movies. _Do you remember?_'s and _Don't you think?_'s outlining every rant. Talk about America's summer home in the western mountains of his reach. World trends and gossip about nations they knew little about. Talk like old women until they've run out of ideas (and America of breath).

They had turned on the television set at some point in their conversation, and its chattering draws their attention. America lunges for one of his dozens of remotes, of which England had casually picked up.

And then it's like they're children, bickering over the softly glowing buttons set in plastic. England (who's had enough alcohol by now to have a pretty flush to his cheeks) laughs maniacally, waving the clicker out of America's grabbing hands. He ends up whacking the North American country on the head several times, but America's fatigue and general unrest leaves him slow and witless.

They've finally settled their score when America suddenly bends over and vomits onto the hardboard. It takes England by surprise, and he turns to see the mess as a swirling of bloody chunks. It's terribly messy, hued pink and red and black, lumpy and not at all healthy. He immediately snaps to attention, grabbing America a towel and bucket before shuffling him to the restroom.

America was silent throughout the entire ordeal, his hands clenched fists and his lips white between his teeth when not opened over the toilet. England fetches him water and saltines, waiting in silence until America can hold them down.

He doesn't dare ask what brought the illness up this time, but the look in America's eyes tells him enough.

(England watches those slender fingers rubbing circles over America's chest and prays to God that it's not almost over.)

England left America in his bedroom, tucked in like a child. America thanked him and used his human name, quietly, like he was afraid to say it. England hushed him and turned out the lights, closing the solid door behind him so as not to wake the drifting nation. His ears are stuffed with cotton and his brain becomes a loop of words he can't quite hear.

The TV's still on when he wanders into the living room, turned to a news program. A woman in an immaculate suit and helmet of shining blonde hair addresses the camera solemnly.

"-announced today that social programs funded by the federal government have been cut completely off."

He glares angrily at the flashing screen, stalking to the collection of remotes. His hands shake as they search for the correct button, in fury or some other emotion, he doesn't know.

"Several politicians opposed to the slashes have been quoted saying that the measures are 'an outright attack on the American people.'"

With a white-fingered punch to the correct switch, the screen blacks out. England mutters curses under his breath. He moves about to clean the gory puke on the floor, all the while thinking that there could be no end to it. There was simply nothing to do about it.

(And he can't help but acknowledging that the fools are right—it's an injustice to the American people. It makes him sad, sick, and all he can see is the tortured look on America's face as he retches. After all, the people are a nation's heart.)

That night England falls asleep on the couch, watching as a rolling blackout finally claimed their ring of light around the park's edges. He feels like he's in the smoke of an extinguished flame.

* * *

On the 23rd of September in the year of 2064, the United States of America collapses.

It was a slow, snowballing affair, and had been running on for years. Several events had led to the ultimate demise of the world's greatest power, but the severity of the end was something akin to an apocalyptic ruin for those who remained standing.

England is gathering his suitcase and tablet when the office phone starts to ring. He eyes the device with confused eyes and checks the time on his clock. It's just past nine-p.m.

Calls weren't forwarded from the ground floor after six... unless the caller had a special code for contact.

He does a quick check of his vital signs while crossing the dark room, just assuring himself that he had not been attacked. His heart was beating normally and he felt cold but that was expected for his economic condition. Maybe there was a tingling around his extremities and a pounding fist against the backs of his eyes, but that could be the banks and their screeching for aid.

"Hello?" he answers into the receiver, snatching the phone before another round of ringing.

Then he's on his knees, the British official on the other end still talking. It's a curious sensation, one that leaves him hollow, his innards scooped out and away. There is nothing.

"-_Mr. Kirkland?_"

He shakily picks up the phone, mumbling a quick goodbye to the human on the other end. His knees buckle and he gropes behind him until he feels his desk. The cold wood does little to stabilize him, and the dark green of the carpet captivates his gaze.

Then the room gets blurry, and his breath rattles in his chest. The tears force themselves out, rolling down his face and dripping onto the front of his suit pants.

And all he can think is _oh God no, no, no, no_.

* * *

France finds him the next morning, curled into his desk chair with his eyes half open.

He had told him to go away, but the threat was feeble and the tear stains on his face give it all away. France offers a few consoling words before seizing the neck of his jacket and hauling him out the door.

The world spins and he's not quite sure it's entirely the shock or the grief.

"You're sick. You and..." France can't even bring himself to say the name. "It's the 'special relationship' you two share-_ed_." England blubbers, but he's become so dizzy he can't see straight. France is carrying him now. He briefly wonders how the other is still standing when he, too, has a strong relationship with America.

And then there's nothing.

(At least for a while. Sometimes he would surface to find himself in his bedroom at his estate. During those minutes of awareness he would stare at the ceiling, not thinking, just feeling as his very dead friend fades away and leaves the rest of the world cut off at the knees. England is left staring at the ghost of America murmuring that there was simply nothing to do.)

When he wakes for the last time, he's ushered to his boss' office and briefed on the situation. The King is in attendance as well, and gives England a squeeze on the shoulder as he passes through the door.

There are parades and donations and promises and mobilized forces that taste like bile on his tongue as they all pour from his people. He screams lies in his mind while keeping a stern, steady expression and stance at the meetings that determine the fate of America's territory.

* * *

Two months after the collapse, Puerto Rico shows up on his doorstep.

The brunette boy is small, his eyes like a Caribbean swirl of blue and green. England sighs at the sight of him, but opens his door regardless of what he knows is to follow.

Puerto Rico died within days. England claimed responsibility of his land and the US territories about him, as well. The British Virgin Islands had simply become the Virgin Islands, muddled together with the USA's former territories.

One thing remains after the child nation passes; a gift he had brought England, supposedly from America.

The glasses are clean and in near perfect condition, their wire frame dented in a few places. England runs his fingers over them each night at his fireplace, his tears dropping onto the eye wear. He wonders why they survived when America himself did not, but mostly wonders about Alfred. Had he woken up that morning and known that he would be putting those glasses on for the last time?

(He stopped his thoughts before they strayed into dark places and rushed him into sleep. The following morning he destroys them without consulting his boss. Hours later an ex-American state fell into bloody militia hands.)

* * *

England spends eleven decades spinning in and out of crisis.

He dodges war, isolated on his island, but cannot avoid the acrid after-wash of the radioactive craters that was Russia. There is nothing to do but sit and watch as one country after another slips into the hole they were all digging.

Ireland comes to him one-hundred-and-fifteen years after America's death.

(England knows he's started measuring time from the end of the greater US, but doesn't correct himself. By the time he realizes it, he knows that he won't last much longer, and his wellness of mind didn't matter when England was dying anyway.)

His brother is bloodied and shaking, a mad glint in his dead eyes that could only be the insanity of civil war.

British troops are sent to the other island nation, and wrap up the situation within two years. England tries to feel happy when he soothes his brother's inner qualms, but as Dublin falls into disuse and disease he knows that he's about to lose another family member.

(Ireland cedes into the United Kingdom without as much as a sigh, flaming hair the last thing England sees of his brother. He collects photos and letters of the Republic of Ireland and burns a traditionally Irish house to the ground. When he can bear it, he buries the keepsakes in his backyard under a white gravestone, next to two others.)

* * *

"I'm dead," England remarked, bored into speech. He eyes the crisp napkin laid out in his lap, avoiding his dining partner's stare.

"We're all dead." France lifts a cursedly thin eyebrow and pours himself another glass of wine. England looks up from the deep bronze cloth to scowl at him. "It's just a matter of time before we realize it." To this the personification raises his drink, a dismal toasting to the whole of Europe.

England has nothing to say to it and simply cuts into his meal, the sliding of his serrated knife inflicting the damage his soldiers could not.

England and France are, essentially, at war.

But it's a confusing heap of he-said-she-said in the afterglow of their shells, and neither of them are invested enough to bicker when they meet up for a meal. England's boss disapproves (surprise), and he wasn't even sure that France's government had any idea about their meetings, yet it's become essential to his yearly struggles.

The changes were obvious in both of their faces, as in all of their kind. England's eyes had lost their acid edge, leaving him with a murky green that ran forward for kilometers. He had gained height in accordance with his new territories, but his frame was thinner and his body frail.

France wasn't any better. He, too, had gained height when former colonies had broken into chaos and lost weight as his government floundered. England often joked that France looked like an old man, and had pretended not to care when his friend/enemy/benefactor told him the same.

When they finish the food, England straightens the last bills in his hands and leaves the stack on the table. He bids France a good-night and returns to his broken homeland, the aches in his muscles biting at him.

(Before he leaves, he warns France of several planned bombings. France laughs and says he knows; he can feel the thrum of England's bombers as they cross the channel. England can't feel a thing.)

* * *

Despite it all, there's a humble slice of peace in the middle of England's sputtering heart.

London's draped in dangerous smog, blanketed and tucked in by God's silent anger (silent, because there hasn't been storms or seasons or anything other than that damned fog and heavy caskets of death dropping from its underbelly).

The quiet in England belongs to a warring mess of ex-states across the pirate infested Atlantic. That is, America, before the collapse.

It's seven p.m. on a Sunday night and England's already drunk, slumped moodily into the threadbare cushions of his easy chair. He watches the lights outside his flat's window as they move from east to west, trying not to think of them as planes.

(Because planes are an American invention, hundreds of years old now, and haven't advanced much since the United States' fell. The whirring of their engines and huge bodies thrown into flight don't leave him entrapped in awe like before; they leave him sick.)

Before he falls asleep, the innovated grandchild of America's (now ancient) phone rings. He slams a finger down on the touchpad, terminating the call. France's number and a paragraph of his written message blink on the phone's exterior. England unplugs the entire bleeding thing.

(After that, he slips into a daze. A daze, because there are revolutionary fires burning in Europe and he can't sleep when his neighbors are screaming bloody murder across the channel. He smells smoke as Norway's municipal districts are bombarded with rebel rockets. England hears the motors of the last Danish naval ships when they sail to calm the temporal burning of Norwegian stability.)

* * *

Somewhere after a turn of a century, something changes in England's head. He's not quite sure what it is, and can't seem to focus enough on where he was coming from. France still visits him often, but England has learned to hate the blue falseness of his eyes.

Their war had long since ended, leaving them both dead eyed and slow witted, squinting at their surroundings like blind men. There are holes in both of their memories, holes that pulse and stretch as living membranes with each new calamity.

Sometimes, England remembers blue skies and a little nation named America.

Sometimes, England wakes up face down on his carpet, a puddle of rusting blood leaking from an old wound.

But most of the time he's in comatose.

* * *

AN: If you're reading this, I love you. In a non-creepy "because I've never met you" way.

The base of the story will revolve around France, England and America as they disappear. Obviously, America has little role in the beginning. This will change once the real things happen.

As for content, some little notes I want to put in:

America is to Mongolia as what? Mongolia in the claws of Genghis Khan was mighty. The entirety of central Asia and parts of western Europe were all under his rule. Mongolia is currently very poor and suffering, and the logic behind this in the Nation's universe is that Mongolia had his golden time already, but was left to roll through the rest of its existence. Great Britain had been left with some sand in his hourglass, and that's all he wants for America.

An injustice to the American people? A country's heart is its people. How his heart got into his stomach, I don't know, but the vomit was a product of cuts (what is this I don't even).

That's really all I have to say now. Please leave a review!


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